


Patchwork

by dansunedisco



Series: Evergreen [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Canon, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22644331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: Written for the prompt: 'neither Jon nor Sansa take compliments from the other well and they get all flustered'-Post-S8. A small moment between Jon and Sansa.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Evergreen [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628935
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	Patchwork

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riahchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riahchan/gifts).



“You’re brilliant.”

Sansa flushes. Five years ruling as queen and two years with him at her side -- it would stand to reason that she wouldn’t become as flustered as she does when he compliments her, but she does. “Thank you, but it was-- it was really nothing.”

“I disagree,” he says. He covers her hand with his. “No one but you would have thought to use a hundred-year-old law to reclaim the Gift from the Crown.”

“You’re the one who found the scroll--”

“--I blew off the dust and carried it back from the Wall with me,” he insists. “You read it and applied it. Every day it astounds me that any of your bannermen wanted to have me sit on the throne when they had you standing right in front of them.”

“Jon.” She flips her hand so that they come palm-to-palm. “Please.”

The quiet eats her alive. 

“How do the repairs go?” she asks lightly, after a pause. “Sam tells me you’ve asked for timber.”

His hand slips out from under hers. “Aye, Deepwood Motte answers well. The snowdrifts have melted enough to haul the rest by next moonturn. The work has been hard going, but Sam says spring is almost upon us.”

Every day men travel north, and the Freefolk south. The Gift and the New Gift has been reclaimed by its people, and the Queen in the North has been generous with finding seats in holdfasts throughout the new lands. For the first time in recent memory, it didn’t feel like they were merely surviving: they were living.

Sansa's heart burns; it feels like a thaw, the promise of spring. “Thank you, Jon. Despite what you say, I couldn’t do this without you. The Freefolk trust you, and you know the Wall better than anyone.”

“You compliment me too freely, Your Grace.” 

“Sansa, please. Use my name.” She reaches out for him again, fingers inching forward into the battlespace of the small table between them. “It so rarely is.”

He answers with a gentle return of touch, but a far cry from their handholding from before. He softens the rejection with a small smile. “Sansa.” 

Her name in his voice washes over her like a crushing wave. He sounds so much like Father, like Robb; he has Arya’s accent, and though she promises she will never, ever again go South, Bran may visit her in a dream yet, and she would know him then, too. She clenches her eyes shut, tears threatening to well up and spill. The pack survived, but they are scattered. She would give anything for it to not be so.

Jon clears his throat. “Bran… Bran says that merely patching her up won’t fix what was broken, but we will find a way soon.”

For a moment, Sansa thinks Jon means her, but quickly remembers they’ve been talking about the Wall. Of course he's not talking so frankly about her. 

"Tell me what you need from me," she says, because the answers lie in the blood of the First Men; and even if she does not understand it, the magic running through her veins, she is willing to do whatever it takes to keep her people safe.

But Jon is here, and for now, that is enough.


End file.
